The Wednesday Advice Smackdown will not be seen today, so that we may continue our round-the-clock coverage of NurseryWatch 2005.
(What? You people DEMANDED photos! Who am I to deny the will of the people? Especially when the will of the people calls for a photo essay that's a million times easier to churn out than an advice column.)
First up, Hangergate!
And now, the crib!
I would like to take a moment and defend the absolute boringness of the nursery walls. My mother-in-law will be doing all the actual decorating and fancy painting in a few weeks. Rumor has it there will be an oak tree that canopies across the ceiling and lots of woodland creatures like bunnies and turtles and things. In the meantime: blaaaaah.
I am currently sleeping on shrunken sheets that have multiple holes from the cat's claws and a big ink stain from that time I fell asleep while trying to write about a dream I'd just had and dropped the pen. When I woke up there was ink everywhere and the only thing I'd written legibly said FAT HOT HAM.
That was the first and last time I ever attempted to keep a dream journal.
Chifferobe. Closet door. Reflection of crib in closet door. Vacuum. Pile of junk that I just kept moving across the room in an attempt to make the room look cleaner and less cluttered for the Internet, because I want to impress you.
A. The blanket from Bethiclaus, which is neither junk nor baby-killing.
B. An exposed cable wire running upstairs, perfect for baby to learn rudimentary noose-making skills!
C. Lots more wires from our print server, wireless router and cable modem. Great for simulating boot camp obstacle courses!
D. A nursing stool from Miss Doxie. I did not know there were stools made expressly for nursing purposes, but I knew I had to have one. Now I do! Pretty!
E. IKEA drawer unit full of junk. Possibly some pens and envelopes.
F. Candles, wood putty, screws and sharp pointy sticks. I think these can stay right where they are.
G. Printer, which presents an even greater relocation challenge than the ironing board.
Also pictured: Ceiba, sitting on an antique rocker from my own infancy, where she is not supposed to sit, because I was totally intending on keeping my nursery pet hair free.
Please note that the diaper stacker matches the bedding set. I would like everybody to note this because I have a feeling it's going to go COMPLETELY UNNOTICED by my son. Kids really have no appreciation for little touches like that.
The basket on top of the dresser was actually part of the packaging for the bedding set. I reused it because I'm clever. I'm sure no one else on the planet would have ever thought of that.
Also pictured: the infamous diaper bag, for which I have gotten more crap and hate mail than any other entry combined. (It's dry clean only! You're stupid! It's expensive! You're a brat! YOU DO REALIZE THAT BABIES POOP AND SPIT UP, DON'T YOU? DOOOON'T YOU? Your pretty bag will be RUINED AND I WILL BE GLAD, BECAUSE I TOLD YOU SO, YOU STUPID BRAT GIRL.)
(Dear Internet: you're just jelus, bitchez.)
Oh, and the iron. We hung the ironing board behind the door (we don't have any full-sized doors in the loft upstairs) using one of these thingies, but our iron is too narrow or something and keeps falling out. So there it stays, where it plots to singe that uppity bitch of a diaper bag.
And...that's kind of it. The most boring photo essay ever. It's hard to be snarky about furniture.
But lest you get too proud of us and all our glorious sort-of progress, I'll leave you with a shot from our living room.
P.S. One request, folks. Let's try to keep the comments assvice-free, k? Like, I know not to leave toys and blankets in the baby's crib when he's in there. I know that I need to get rid of the wires and the toxins and the whatnot in the corner. And I would rather NOT discuss my reasons for choosing a particular breast pump over another with the entire Internet. And I even know about Dreft! I have a mom who tells me things! I know you mean well and all, but when the unsolicited advice just keeps pouring in I kind of feel like y'all must think I am a giant dumbass. Besides, if you don't let me have the occasional parental fuck-up, what in sam hill am I going to write about?